


Blindsided

by AmandaDBone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaDBone/pseuds/AmandaDBone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I'm not here for a case. I'm here to talk about your </i>date<i>."</i></p>
<p>
  <i>"You know, sometimes you talk about normal human interaction the way a child talks about vegetables."</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A string of unsuccessful dates for Greg turns around when Sherlock shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blindsided

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for Jhessail, for sherlock-rant's Secret Santa exchange. The prompt is in the end notes.

Conceivably, a person could be held up from an appointment for thirty minutes by completely normal events. Greg Lestrade himself was not always a timely person; a number of his arguments with his ex-wife had, in fact, been about missed dates, anniversaries spent too long apart, and reservations they never made it to. It came with the job, and it wasn't as though he could just drop a fresh corpse because he wanted a little romance in his life — or, God forbid, a little sex.

So it was completely possible that his date was thirty-five minutes late for some completely legitimate reason. Anderson, who had set Greg up with her, hadn't told him her profession. Maybe she was a doctor mid-surgery, or involved in politics and stuck in some humdrum argument between a bunch of blokes who only wanted to wait the other out. Maybe her boss was putting the pressure on her to finish some report or other before she left, and she was desperately trying to get it all out as quick as she could. Maybe her workplace didn't have any clocks, or any reception for her mobile.

Or maybe she was just standing him up.

No, he couldn't let himself think that way. He smiled grimly and shrugged when the waiter passed by again, ignoring the eye-roll that wasn't all that well hidden.

Maybe she'd got the time wrong. If she was an hour off, it'd still be twenty minutes early to her. Maybe Anderson had given _him_ the wrong time.

Right. He resolved to give up once the hour was out. Well, an hour and ten, just in case she was an hour off _and_ held up a bit. He'd waited forty-five minutes already; he could certainly wait another thirty. Or thirty-five.

God, he felt pathetic.

It didn't even all have to do with his missing date. Only just that morning, he'd had to call in one Sherlock Holmes, the famously not-dead consultant, to help on another case. He'd managed to solve it under two hours. A case that had taken well over a week, and he'd picked out every clue Greg and his men couldn't see right away. It was enough to make a man feel like quitting and handing over the reins. He knew damn well that he did his job well ninety-nine percent of the time, but to see someone come in and do it better so casually made all his successes seem insignificant.

Although he was sure, at least, that Sherlock would never have been able to handle the tedium of paperwork or procedure. It was a little difficult to be proud of bureaucracy and being by-the-book, though.

The date didn't feel all that different, actually. Once upon a time he'd been a real lady-killer, but after one failed marriage he felt dried up and _old_. Logically he knew it wasn't his own fault, not in this particular case, since there was nothing this woman knew about him that could possibly be the basis for a complete rejection, but it didn't sting any less to know that.

Maybe she'd seen him, though. Maybe she wasn't fifty minutes late; maybe she'd been there on time, and had taken one look at his greying hair and the lines around his eyes, and she'd thought, "Nope, that's not for me, thanks."

Maybe—

Maybe she'd turned into Sherlock bloody Holmes. If that were the case, she'd only be a good fifty-five minutes late.

"No," Greg said, uselessly, as Sherlock took the seat opposite him. "Absolutely not. I'm off duty, and I'm on a date. Go bother someone else for a case."

"I'm not here for a case," Sherlock replied, communicating a silent _you idiot_ without even making eye contact. "I'm here to talk about your _date_."

"You know, sometimes you talk about normal human interaction the way a child talks about vegetables." Wait, no, he'd actually said something important — something more than a jibe at Greg's insistence on attempting romantic relationships. "Hang on, what about my date?'

"She won't be making it." Sherlock, by all appearances, couldn't have cared less. "She's indisposed."

Shit. From Sherlock, that could mean just about anything between actually being stuck on the Tube and being scattered in pieces across the Thames. "Indisposed?" Greg asked, trying not to fear the worst.

Sherlock huffed as though elaborating on such matters was an enormous waste of his time and brain power. He still wouldn't meet Greg's eye. "She's been distracted. By John."

"John?" There was no way that was a coincidence. "Sherlock, what the fuck did you do to my date?"

" _I_ did nothing. John is simply making sure the moles on the back of her neck aren't cancerous." He paused, and then, quieter, admitted, "At my request."

Greg put his head in his hands. "Tell me John's not getting a leg over right now with the woman I was trying to date. I don't care if it's not true, just tell me he isn't."

Sherlock, looking genuinely surprised, finally looked directly at him. "Of course not. He's absolutely miserable at flirting when he actively tries. Haven't you noticed? Oh, no, of course not. You're at about the same level there, aren't you?"

Greg couldn't even work up the will to be offended. Not by Sherlock, at least. In light of his wasted time, though, it was quite easy to be offended by the burgundy tablecloth, the mediocre starter he'd optimistically ordered, the waiter that kept glancing over at him disapprovingly and appeared to be sizing Sherlock up. Good luck to him if he tried to heap attitude on that one, anyway.

He hadn't realised how exhausted he was. Waiting for a blind date who may as well have been Godot was tiring business, and dealing with Sherlock doubly so.

"All right, then," he said, waving the waiter over. "You've succeeded at ruining my evening, so congratulations on that. Can I ask how you managed to rope John into it, though?"

Sherlock looked away again, and if he'd been in a more mild mood, Greg would've been shocked to see him nearly bashful. "It was his idea. One of his better ones, really."

Which surely only meant that Sherlock had taken something John had said casually and twisted it into some terrible plan, as per usual. "Really. And what, exactly, did _John_ hope to accomplish with this?"

Sherlock took a long, deep breath, letting it out through slightly-parted lips. "He thought I could discuss my feelings with you." Once he'd got it out, Sherlock looked vaguely offended by his own words. It was almost endearing.

If nothing else, it was something Greg had never expected to hear from Sherlock. He informed the waiter that he was done, and then turned back to Sherlock with a vague hand wave. "Go on, then."

"I want you to stop going on blind dates."

Greg waited. Unlike the situation with Miss Godot, his patience wore thin quickly. "Is that it?"

He expected, in response, a diatribe about how other people's romantic lives were a waste of Sherlock's time — or, failing that, a lecture about how stupid his failures made him, or even something about his ex, since it was surely beneath Sherlock to realise that he'd actually divorced her. He was practically scripting his dismissal of it all in his head.

And then he threw it all away, because Sherlock didn't say any of that.

"I want you to date me instead." He looked so angry about it, Greg couldn't even begin to think of how to respond. "No, no, not date, that's juvenile. I want you to take me to your sad little flat and fuck me. I want you to kiss me. I want you to be _mine_."

Once, in a long lost, mostly happy marriage, a woman then known as Mrs. Lestrade had told Greg all about a man named Alfred Kinsey. He didn't remember even half of what she'd said, in part because she'd said an awful lot of it while naked, but he got the part where Kinsey had declared something along the lines of no person being truly, completely inclined toward one gender only. At the time, he'd only retained that information to use as a building block for his "why we should have a threesome" proposal. Strangely, she hadn't seen the connection between the two.

But there it was now, creeping to the forefront of his mind, whispering to him that if he were to make an exception to his continued streak of only sleeping with woman, Sherlock Holmes would be a fantastic one. He was distinctly masculine, but not intimidatingly buff or handsome, and he was as unlike anyone else he'd dated in personality as Greg could possibly stand. Sure, he had a cock to navigate around, but compared to all the rest of him, that seemed startlingly easy to deal with.

And it was awfully nice, really, just to feel wanted. Greg wasn't in such a crisis of self-confidence that he thought himself ugly or completely undesirable, but there was a difference between catching a stranger's eye in passing and having someone he knew, someone who knew him, actually acknowledge an attraction. It was all the more significant that that person was Sherlock, who Greg had almost suspected had no libido at all until Irene Adler appeared, and who clearly thought most of the world far too pathetically stupid to bother with.

That was why, before he'd even realised he'd made a decision, Greg was saying, "Yeah, okay," and slapping a handful of notes onto the table. Sherlock looked remarkably pleased at that, although Greg wasn't sure if it was the prospect of sex he was excited for or if he was just relieved he didn't have to go further into his feelings.

They took a cab to Greg's place, and instead of letting himself slowly unravel and panic, he focused on the oddity of travelling in the same vehicle as Sherlock for what, as far as he could remember, was the first time. In reality, Sherlock took up no more of the space in the cab anyone should, but the strangeness of being thigh-to-thigh with him, particularly with the knowledge that those thighs might soon be bare, was striking, and made him seem like a giant.

Greg cleared his throat, trying not to think about nakedness — not just yet. "So what brought this on, exactly?'

"As I said, it was John's idea."

Panic crept in. Blind, irrational panic at the idea that John would have suggested that Sherlock try to get Greg into bed. No, that was just too absurd. "John told you to have sex with me?"

Sherlock made a face at his phone, which highlighted all the sharp edges of his face in blue. "Don't be ridiculous. He helped me to realise that I _want_ to have sex with you."

"I don't know if that's much better, actually."

Sherlock huffed, putting the phone away. He hunched down slightly, looking like an oversized bird as he nestled into his coat. "He said I was becoming unbearable. He says that a lot, of course, and he's almost always exaggerating, but this time he said it like he was pitying me. I couldn't ignore it. When I asked, he suggested that the most likely reason I was upset was because I was a bit possessive of you, and that that indicated attraction. I couldn't find any fault in his argument, so I—"

"Hang on." Greg held up a hand, waiting a second in silence before he continued. "What does you being upset have to do with me? I thought you were always upset about everything, anyway. Besides murders, I mean."

"—so I decided to act on it, and he more or less agreed that that was the best course of action. I was _upset_ because you wouldn't stop asking people to send you on those idiotic blind dates. Every time I saw you, the evidence was written on you clear as day, both that they were all abject failures and that you were still trying."

"Oh." He _had_ been on rather a lot of them, lately, but then it had seemed only sensible, when the remaining pool of available women he already knew was more or less depleted of all its passably attractive and possibly not like his wife options. And they weren't all total failures — just most of them. "So you were jealous."

"Immensely." Sherlock's lip curled into a vicious expression. "The idea of you looking for strange, increasingly unpalatable people when I've been _right here_ this whole time— Well, it was clearly only my personal bias that kept me from seeing it before. I didn't _want_ to feel anything like that for you."

"Yeah, thanks."

"You know what I mean. It's distracting and awful, and not knowing whether or not I could do anything about it was unsettling." He turned toward him, letting his hand brush the side of Greg's knee. "I'm glad you said yes, by the way, even though it's clear you're steering yourself into a panic over my sex. Try to put it off 'til the morning, if you can."

Well, not just over his sex, not really. "Sure, I'll try."

Silence settled over them again, and before it seemed possible, the cab stopped, forcing Greg to acknowledge that yes, that was his flat, and yes, it was absolutely his plan to go inside and have sex with a man. With _Sherlock Holmes_. He was half-certain he'd lost it, but it was definitely a better prospect than another lonely night with his hand.

Sherlock remained a respectable, keeping-up-appearances three steps behind him on the way into the flat — which, really, was not all that sad, just a little plain. It was a bit small, though. The very second the door clicked shut, though, he whirled around, pressing Greg against the wall and working hurriedly at his clothes.

"Where do you want to come?" he asked as he threw aside a shirt and a vest, still tangled up together. "In my mouth? No, you wouldn't, not yet. On my face, then? Or would you rather face your fears head-on and come on my cock?"

"Oh, God," was all Greg could say in response, barely able to keep up enough to help Sherlock with his clothing. "Say 'cock' again."

"Cock," Sherlock parroted obediently. A moment later, he held up a condom pilfered from Greg's own pocket, letting Greg's trousers drop to the floor. "Optimistic."

Greg still had enough of his wits about him to be vaguely offended by that, even if it was a bit true; none of his previous blind dates had ended in sex, and even this one was only because of a startlingly unpredictable turn of events.

He didn't think on it for long, quickly distracted by the feeling of Sherlock slipping his fingertips into Greg's pants. "I'm sure your cock is a lovely one, isn't it? Can I see it? I'm supposed to ask, aren't I?"

Fuck, that voice, that filthy mouth; Greg was certain that if Sherlock kept talking, he could deal with any sort of sexuality crisis in no time at all. "Don't ask, please, don't ask."

Sherlock's grin at that was positively wicked, and then Greg was naked, and Sherlock still had all his clothes on. He'd have felt insecure if he didn't know that Sherlock had probably had a very good idea of what his body looked like anyway, and if his cock wasn't being stroked slowly by a warm, sure hand.

"Your clothes—"

"Later," Sherlock said, too busy studying Greg's cock to say anything more. He thumbed the head gently, pushing at the edge of his foreskin, and rubbed his fingertips over the fraenulum over and over. He was looking at it like it was some sort of experiment, or a bit of crime scene evidence, and in that moment, Greg couldn't have imagined anything that would have turned him on more.

Until Sherlock dropped to his knees, anyway.

"It _is_ lovely," he said, his breath puffing out warm and moist over the head. Greg's cock jerked in his grip, begging for more stimulation. "Above average size, pleasant shape, foreskin neither too loose nor overly tight. The head is, perhaps, a bit disproportionally large, but I don't think that will be any sort of problem."

Greg groaned at the feeling of latex being rolled down his length, just that hint of glorious pressure. "God, keep talking."

"I don't think I will." That was just as well, too, and Greg very nearly howled at the feeling of his cock-head being surrounded by a hot mouth for the first time in what felt like ages. Even through the barrier of the condom, it was utterly fantastic.

It was clear enough that Sherlock was no expert cocksucker, keeping only a little more than the head wrapped in his lips and using his large palm to cover the rest, but he was aware enough of his limits that it hardly mattered. He managed his mouth skillfully, sucking and tonguing the slit and the fraenulum in turns, and he didn't waste time trying to contain his saliva or making a show of it. With his free hand he stroked Greg's leg, cupped and rolled his balls, and pressed a finger gently to his perineum, keeping his touch light and varied, just enough to please without racing towards a finish.

Not that Greg needed help, there; even with spit rolling down his chin and his brow furrowed in concentration, Sherlock's lips around his cock looked like they emerged straight from a wet dream.

What he meant to say was, "I'm going to come." What he actually said was, "I'm going to come on your face, on your cheeks."

Sherlock smiled obscenely around his cock, then, slowly, pulled away, pulling the condom off as he moved. He opened his eyes and looked up at Greg. He used his free hand to palm himself through his trousers, his other hand moving faster, firming on Greg's cock, until Greg's body jerked and shuddered and Sherlock's face was streaked with white.

Sherlock didn't waste a second after, jumping up and wiping haphazardly at his face while tearing at his clothes. He only got his coat off — Jesus, he'd still had his coat on — and his trousers and pants around his thighs before he pressed himself to Greg, kissing him messily.

Greg usually turned away a kiss after a blowjob, but Sherlock was so quick and insistent he couldn't even put up a token protest. The condom had left a plastic, latex aftertaste in his mouth, but it seemed almost irrelevant in the face of all that desire. It made it seem sort of hot, even, that the mouth that had just been on his cock was now on his own. He'd worry about it later, when his own tongue wasn't being stroked and assaulted, and after he'd dealt with the here-and-now of Sherlock's cock rubbing in the crease of his leg, right by his own softening erection.

Sherlock pulled his mouth away for just a moment, keeping up the relentless rocking of his hips while Greg did all he could to just hold on and enjoy the ride. "We're going to do this again," he said. "I'll suck your cock every day if that's what it takes to keep you from seeking out another boring blind date ever again. I'll let you fuck me. My arse would be fantastic for that, don't you think?"

Greg did think so, in some part of his mind, but before he could agree Sherlock was sucking a bruise into his neck, right down near his shoulder, and Greg couldn't keep in the moan that came up at that, or the one that followed it when Sherlock moved and bit high on the other side, hard.

He was startled, briefly, when Sherlock's hands stopped their roaming exploration to cup Greg's own arse, pulling him forward. Sherlock ground his cock against Greg's flesh, worryingly hard. It seemed as though going a bit rough was what he liked, though, because a moment later he was coming, and for the first time Greg felt another man's ejaculate drip down his naked body.

They stood there a moment in silence, breathing hard and barely supporting each other enough to remain standing. Sherlock's lips were still pressed to his neck, occasionally giving the skin there a leisurely suck. Greg could feel Sherlock's erection waning against his hip.

He felt, quite suddenly, like his stomach had dropped out. Yes, that had been completely fantastic sex, but it was sex with a _man_ — with Sherlock, with his enormous intellect, his condescending attitude, and his definitely-there cock still pressed up against Greg's skin. He had no problem with that sort of thing, but he'd never thought of himself as— well, as—

"Don't do that," Sherlock said, patting him on his naked thigh, and it took Greg a moment to realise he meant not to panic. "I think I can manage a second round tonight before you start. Can you?"

Greg took a deep breath, filing his inner turmoil away for later. "I can certainly try."

Sherlock looked more pleased at that than Greg had ever seen him with a living person, and he set about trying to make sure he stayed that way.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt:
> 
> "Sherlock finds himself bothered by Lestrade's frequent blind dates, and he isn't sure why. John helps him figure out that he maybe feels something more than he initially thought for the DI."


End file.
